Across the country, Waylon Smithers was expecting a call. He'd received an alert that the package had been signed for and received. He'd explained to Monty he'd be coming in late that morning. He stood in his room, overlooking the rear grounds of the estate.

The snow had come early that year. Smithers had worried about his peafowl, but Burns assured him the "loathsome brutes" were of hardy stock, and would survive the cold. Just to be sure though, part of the old stables had been converted into a heated barn for the birds to retreat to at night.

The peafowl, however, did not seem to share in Smithers' concern. The strode elegantly through the snow, utterly indifferent to the cold. One of the pied birds was currently foraging along the veranda. They'd become remarkably tame, despite Burns' repeated efforts to shoo them away from the manor and gardens.

Smithers' cell phone buzzed. About time, he thought with mild annoyance. The package had been signed for over an hour ago. He snatched his phone from the table by the piano.

"Hello, Preston."

Preston Tucci's familiar voice came through the receiver. "Waylon. Good morning."

There was an awkward pause. Smithers drummed his fingers on the table impatiently. "Well, it seems I'm going first," he observed. He flopped down into a nearby chair, and stared out at the clear winter sky. "Do you have any idea what this is about, Preston."

A sigh, then an answer. "I don't want to ask," Preston replied.

Smithers could read between the lines. "Yes," Smithers, began. "This is about AlkaliStark. But more importantly, this is about you. Monty may disagree with me, and you might not believe me Preston, but I have your best interests at heart."

"I see…" Preston's voice was full of skepticism.

"Look, Preston," Smithers cut in. "I'll get to the point. For the past twenty years or so, your plant's been sending spent fuel rods west, to us. And we've been storing them. No one's questioned it. Monty… eh, Mister Burns, handled all that. The man's got a gift. Anyhow, in all that time, the rods in your pool have been rotating out. Hot assemblies go in, cool assemblies go out; right?"
"I suppose."

"You 'suppose?' Preston? There's nothing to 'suppose.' That's exactly how it's been… until a few months ago. You've got time before you need to swap out the fuel assemblies in Reactor Two, but Reactor One will be due for refueling next fall, unless I miss my guess. I'm sure you know each assembly has about a three year lifespan?"

Preston's silence gave Smithers reason to think the young CEO did not know that.

Smithers didn't wait for a reply. "So, here's the situation. Like clockwork, old assemblies go out, new ones come in. What happens, Preston, when the old ones stop going out?"
"We re-rack, as per Nuclear Regulatory Commission protocol."

Smithers drummed his fingers impatiently. "Exactly. And then what?"

"What do you mean, Waylon?" Preston sounded irritated. Smithers could relate.

"Preston, think about it for a minute. For most of your plant's operating period, no one has ever questioned where those spent assemblies go, right? When they stop going, Preston, people will question it. 'Why aren't they shipping out anymore,' people will ask. And then, Preston, you will find yourself in a very uncomfortable position. Eyes will be on you in ways you don't want them; trust me."

Smithers got up and removed a pack of cigarettes from his dresser drawer. He tucked on in his pocket and looked longingly out at the balcony. How could was it out there? It couldn't be that cold he decided. He threw on a down parka and stepped outside. Damn, it was colder than he expected.

Preston was trying to justify his inaction. Smithers barely listened. He lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply. "Look Preston," he groaned, "People notice changes. If something's the same way it's always been, no one questions it. When something changes, everyone notices. It starts at the employee level. Operators, engineers. They'll start asking questions, and your management team will hear about it. When your middle managers ask, the upper level starts wondering. Soon everyone from the janitor to the Board knows the procedure's changed."

Smithers tried balancing his phone between his shoulder and ear, and putting his hands in his pocket. The phone was too sleek, it started to slide. Smithers muttered a brief curse and grabbed it.

"What was that?" Preston asked, concerned.

"Almost dropped my phone." Smithers took another drag from his cigarette. "When things change, people get nosy. Do you really want the board asking you where the spent fuel's been going? Are you prepared to lie, possibly under oath, about what's been going on? Hell, Preston, do you have the mettle to handle a full-on investigation? Because, quite honestly, I'm not sure you do."

"I, uh…" Preston stuttered.

Smithers cut him off again. "Not the least of which, I have a vested interest in this. Do you think I really want to risk my company, Mister Burns' company, getting thrown into a spotlight like that? The truth is, Preston, Burns Consolidated can handle it. We've got the connections, we've got the lawyers. It's be a major headache, but it won't break us. You, on the other hand? Well, you stand to lose everything. And I do mean everything!"

Smithers started ticking off points on his fingers, forgetting Preston couldn't see. "Career, reputation, freedom. You know time in prison is a very real outcome of a Federal investigation, right?"

Preston made a squeaking sound.

Smithers ignored it.

"So, you really don't have a choice. The only action you can take is to continue doing the transfers Dimas and Mister Burns arranged all those years ago. If you don't, well, when the authorities are prowling at your door, don't say I didn't warn you."

Smithers flicked a pill of ash over the edge of the balcony where it landed on the white blanket below.

Preston seemed to have found his voice. "Is that a threat, Waylon?"

Smithers choked, caught off guard. He sputtered for a second. "A threat? God no, Preston. Is that what you think I'd do? I'm trying to help you! I don't want to see you fail. I want to see you succeed at this! Honestly, I do." Smithers shifted the phone to his other ear. "You're my friend, Preston. You're young, and inexperienced, and you have no idea how ruthless politics of the business world can be!"

"I think I do know," Preston shot back, his words harsh. "I was shot. Do you think I want to relive the moment?"

Smithers shook his head sadly. "Preston, those are topics for another night. Over drinks. I promise." His cigarette had burned down to the bitter filter. Smithers pinched the glowing ember into the snow, and tucked the butt in his pocket. "I'm trying to look out for you. Monty thinks I'm a fool. He thinks I'll put us all in the frying pan for even mentioning this to you, but I disagree. He doesn't know you. I like to think I do. All I'm saying is 'think about it.' But I really hope, ultimately for your sake, that you say 'yes.'"

"Suppose I do say yes," Preston began slowly. "What happens next?"

Smithers smiled into the phone. "Periodically your cool assemblies will be shipped off to a certain dry storage facility, and the cycle repeats itself. Remember, the NRC has signed off on this, even if they didn't realize it at the time. Business as usual, and all perfectly legal."

"Business as usual," muttered Preston quietly. "What choice do I have, Waylon?"

"In all likelihood? Probably none, honestly, if you want to avoid an inquiry."

Preston made a groaning sound. "Well, I suppose there's my decision."

"You're in?"

Preston sighed heavily, the sound crackling through the receiver. "I'll think about it, but probably yes. I'm in."

Smithers rubbed his hands together. "Excellent." He beamed, though he knew Preston couldn't see it. "You've made the right choice. I look forward to working with you in the future."

"Yeah," Preston relented. "Me too."

Smithers paused. Something in Preston's tone concerned him. "Are you… feeling okay?" Smithers asked.

"Just tired, that's all," Preston replied.

Smithers wasn't sure he believed that. He glanced at his calendar. "Look, in the not-to-distant future Monty and I are hosting a little get-together. I want you and Antoine to come out for it."

"I don't know if I can spare the time."

"You'll make it happen. In the meantime, I'd advise you start thinking up some initiative programs. Get your name out there as the figurehead for some new contributions or civic venture. You may think you're running a nuclear plant, but you're a public figure now."

Preston's voice sounded far away. "Like what, Waylon?"

Smithers shook his head. "God, Preston. I don't know. Look around, your plant and your community. See what can be changed. Get your name out there. Mister Burns donates significant amounts to charities, and has hosted more than a few black-tie fundraisers. Find something you see that could be improved, and a way that it could help your company." Smithers glanced at his watch. It was getting late. "I can't tell you what to do, but think of something, okay?"

"I'll try."

"That's a start." Smithers was about to sign off when Preston's voice cut through the line again.

"Waylon?"

Smithers tried to hide his impatience. "Yes, Preston?"

"Thank you."

Smithers paused, taken back. "Uhm, you're welcome… but for what?"

Preston's voice had a haggard edge to it. "I know you're just trying to help, and I appreciate that you're looking out for me. I don't mean to sound ungrateful. I just… I have a lot on my mind." The unmoderated emotion in Preston's voice was easy to pick up.

Smithers felt his irritation melting away, replaced with what? Sympathy maybe? Empathy? Smithers wasn't sure.

"It's okay Preston. I know we don't talk much, but for what it's worth, I do consider you a friend. I want you to know that, okay?"

"Thanks Waylon, that means a lot to me."

"I'm glad."

There was a brief pause, then Preston spoke again.

"Thanks for the time, Waylon. I appreciate it."
Smithers nodded. "You're welcome. But now, I have to get going." He glanced at the clock again. "And I'm sure you do too. Good luck, Preston. You'll get this sorted out."

They disconnected, and Smithers dropped his phone into his pocket. He padded the mirror and straightened his bowtie. I hope that kid figures this out, he thought to himself as he headed down to the garage. He's got a long road ahead of him.

"You're late, Smithers," Montgomery Burns observed from behind his desk.

The thin man sat hunched at his desk, silhouetted against the grey winter sky. He leaned forward as Smithers approached, fingers curled like claws around the arms of his chair. Burns drew his lips back. He looked less like a man, and more like an ancient predator who had not yet forgotten the taste of blood.

"Your tardiness displeases me."

Smithers nodded as he hung his parka on the coat rack. "I'm sorry sir. It took me a bit longer than I expected to tie up loose ends with Preston."

Burns licked his lips. "Is young Tucci coming to heel?"

"I believe so, yes," Smithers replied.

Burns drew his hands up. Thoughtfully, he toyed with the white gold ring on his right hand before continuing. The gesture was deliberate, and designed to catch Smithers' eye. It worked. Smithers glanced down at his own right hand, to a matching band on his ring finger.

"Sit," Burns instructed, gesturing to a chair by his desk.

Smithers crossed the enormous office, and sat down in a high-backed chair by the window. Burns and stalked over to Smithers, a casual grace to his motion. He perched himself on the armrest, and leaned his body towards Smithers. He reached out, and rested a long-fingered hand on Smithers' shoulder.

"Tell me, Waylon, what do you really hope to accomplish with your involvement?"

Smithers tilted his head up, looking eye to eye with his boss.

"Preston's young, but I don't want to see him wreck," Smithers admitted with a shrug.

The corner of Burns' mouth twitched. A smile, or perhaps a sneer. "Do you sincerely think people can be transformed, Smithers? Are you truly willing to waste your time and effort on that languid soul?" Burns made a scoffing sound. "In your time that you've known me, have I honestly changed that much?" Burns sunk his fingers painfully deep into Smithers' shoulder for emphasis. His blue eyes bore into Smithers' brown with a furious intensity.

Smithers resisted the natural impulse to wince, or shy away. Burns' grasp hurt, yes; but there was a purpose to it. Power. Control. Burns, for all his frailty, had the crushing grip of an eagle's talons and he wasn't shy to use it when it seemed appropriate.

There would be bruises, Smithers knew.

Burns had left them before.

It wasn't necessarily a bad thing.

Smithers knew he was supposed to look away. Defer to Burns now, and the vicelike grip would lessen.

Smithers did avert his eyes, but only for a moment. Without warning, he reached up and grabbed Burns' hand with his own. His fingers curled around Burns' thin wrist. Burns' eyes widened in shock. Startled, Burns made to jerk his hand away, but Smithers held fast.

"Monty," Smithers began slowly. "You've changed completely. Perhaps not so the average joe would notice, but I see it every day."

Burns wriggled his hand, but Smithers only clamped down harder. "Do you honestly expect me to believe that ten years ago you'd be calling Larry, his wife and kids, and inviting them up for our little, eh, upcoming event?" Smithers leaned his face closer to Burns. "You have changed Monty." Smithers held his hand up, showing him the ring.

"Bah," Burns growled. He looked away and chewed the inside of his lip thoughtfully. "So you think now I've gone soft, eh? Some sentimental old fool, blind and moonstruck into witless oblivion? Ah, you're naïve Waylon. It's just a token, a trinket from some past era. Don't read too much into it."

Don't read too much into it? Really? Smithers laughed, in spite of himself. "Ah, Monty, thou doth protest too much! As I recall you asked me to marry you. You went about setting a date. You invited Larry and his family. All this and you claim to be the same old tyrant you always were?"

Burns struggled valiantly, but Smithers didn't relax his grip. If anything, he tightened it more.

Damn his insolent hide, Burns thought, glaring down into the smug eyes of his former assistant, and now his lover. He tried prying Smithers' fingers from his wrist, but to no avail. Smithers had him trapped.

"Fine, fine," Burns snarled. "I confess, perhaps I have changed a bit, Waylon."

Smithers gave him a self-satisfied smirk, but Burns wasn't finished yet.

"Waylon, once again you project your hopes upon my actions. It was a spur of the moment thing. I'm sure I would never have made such a request if you hadn't been soporose in the midst of that wreck. I was merely overcome with emotion when you regained consciousness." There was an uncomfortable tightness in Burns' chest as he recalled the image. Smithers, lying dead to the world, hooked up to various machines in a hospital bed. He coughed, trying to expel whatever was causing the sensation. Alas, the feelings remained.

Ah, but pride was always the answer, was it not?

"I can assure you, it won't happen again," Burns announced arrogantly. He straightened himself up as best he could, increasing the angle of his face. Best to put some distance between Smithers' mouth and his; lest the younger man's seditious nature only excite him further. There was something delightfully enticing about Smithers' newfound sauciness.

Burns found himself longing to kiss those impertinent lips that saw fit to smirk at him. Maybe even bite them, to remind Smithers who was in charge.

Words escaped his mouth that he hadn't uttered in over four decades. Words he thought he'd never utter again. "Waylon Smithers," he whispered, voice soaked with hunger. "Cheeky scoundrel…"

Smithers winked at him, and gave a pert flip of his head. He put a single finger over Burns' lips and made a shushing sound. "Don't tempt me Monty. You're not the only one who's changed."

Burns hadn't realized his grip had loosened, but Smithers must've. With an easy flick of his wrist, Smithers cast Burns' hand from his shoulder, and stood up quickly. Smithers leaned his hands on either side of Burns' and batted his eyes enticingly. "I'll always be yours, Monty. And I'm pretty sure, that you're mine too."

Smithers' lips were on his before Burns even had time to protest. Burns relented, and gave way to the feelings at his breast. All too soon though, Smithers broke off the embrace. The younger man leaned back, and strode over to the window, hands clasped behind his back.

Burns clutched the narrow perch of his armrest, and hoped Smithers didn't see the faint desperation in his eyes. All these years he'd toyed with Smithers, like a cat plays with a still-live mouse before deciding whether to deliver a killing blow, or let the poor creature flee.

Well, Burns thought as he stood up and straightened his tie, he'd missed that opportunity to strike Smithers down. Missed it in spades.

Or perhaps, a little nagging voice piped up, you had the chance and ultimately refused take it.

Burns walked over to the water cooler and poured himself a drink. I could've taken him down if I wanted to, Burns argued to himself as he made his way back to his desk.

Exactly, agreed the voice. But you didn't. Instead you built him up. And, admit it Monty, you like it.

Burns chuckled, and glanced up at Smithers. I do enjoy a mental scrimmage with him. It is far more fun to fight with a peer than an underling. Nice to see he can actually hold his own in a battle of wills.

You're seeing him as an equal. The voice pointed out, as if vindicated his own thoughts. You built him up, and now he's seeing it himself. Don't you think there's a parallel here?

Burns sidled up to Smithers and stared out the window. Snow was beginning to fall. What similitude could possibly exist?

Do you think the old Waylon Junior would've stood a chance at elevating someone if he hadn't risen to the occasion himself?

"Eh?" Burns asked aloud. Smithers glanced over at him and raised an eyebrow. Burns ignored it.

You built him up. He's trying to do the same for someone else now, the voice remarked.

The little voice took on a grandiose tone, continued relentlessly. That's 'legacy' for you, Monty. More than your name, more than your company. What he does, it's because of you. You started this. Now you're getting to see the true measure of your effect on the world. Young Waylon Smithers, Preston Tucci, perhaps even your own son Larry. This is the true value of your patrimony: do you not feel some measure of pride?

Burns eyed Smithers discretely. "I do," he muttered. "Every time I look at him."

Smithers turned, and raised an eyebrow.

"You're talking to yourself again, sir."

Burns waved a hand. "Balderdash, Smithers. I've done no such thing. Don't you have something important to do?"

Smithers shrugged, almost sarcastically. "I'm sure I can find one or two projects lying around."

"Well, by all means, hop to it man. Time is money, and once it's gone it's lost forever."

Smithers nodded agreeably. "I understand, sir." He laid his hand gently on his boss's shoulder, then turned and headed to his office. Burns' shoulder felt a residual heat from Smithers' all too brief touch. He watched his employee… no, his partner leave, and smiled quietly to himself. Legacy indeed.